


Whatever You Want

by Davechicken



Series: Prince of Omens - Egyptian AU [3]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-08
Updated: 2019-11-08
Packaged: 2021-01-25 05:43:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21351184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Davechicken/pseuds/Davechicken
Summary: A missing scene for the Prince of Omens comic.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Prince of Omens - Egyptian AU [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1508924
Comments: 57
Kudos: 472
Collections: Shinbi34's Recommendations





	Whatever You Want

**Author's Note:**

> Between [part 14](https://whiteleyfoster.tumblr.com/post/188566439408/prince-of-omens-part-14-its-taken-me-72-paintings) and [part 15](https://whiteleyfoster.tumblr.com/post/188633442123/prince-of-omens-part-15-thanks-everyone-so-much).
> 
> With enormous gratitude to Whitley for allowing me the honour of slipping in the gap :)

This is insane. Totally, utterly insane. Crowley thinks he could ‘blend in’, but Aziraphale knows the demon (and he is, still, a demon) could never blend in anywhere. It isn’t just… it isn’t just that he… it’s an academic fact. 

Crowley is stunning. Truly stunning. It’s simply a case of… of having eyes. 

Even if the angel has seen plenty of other human-like bodies, and never felt like this about them. He loves humans. He _does_. Even the ones who do terrible things. (He loves those people in a different way, and it’s harder, but he still does.) And some of them are very aesthetically pleasing, but it would never occur to him - has never - it…

Who is he trying to fool? Her? Aziraphale lied to Her once before, and he still doesn’t know how he got away with it. No… She has to know. And either not mind, or… so God isn’t the issue. The other angels? They occasionally send him assignments, or demand his reports, but he’s not sure they actually pay much attention to them. At least three suggestions for improvements have been ignored without due consideration, and they all look like they pity him, when they see him. Like his role here, on Earth, is some kind of short straw.

It absolutely is not.

He knows Heaven would not approve. Something tells him that even if he could find a way to ‘sell’ it as a positive… as trying to bring an errant sheep home to the flock… that his association with the demon would never be considered fairly. (And his mind sort of… hits a wall at this point and then refuses to go any further.)

So. They wouldn’t be happy. But would they even notice? Really? Does anyone even… look?

(Aziraphale does. At Crowley. Who is sprawled out over the small bed he has simply to curl up on and read, when most of the humans are asleep. At Crowley, whose hair spreads wide like his limbs, flowing over the room like everything he touches belongs to him. At Crowley, whose cheeks are lightly bronzed in that way he has when he’s feeling more than he knows his eyes let on. At…)

He has to say something. Has to. Crowley is… beautiful. But in more than just his form. Relaxed, away from everyone else’s eyes, he’s… utterly himself. Not afraid to try the angel’s simple (but homely) foods. Not dismissive of the humble little place he’s carved amongst the slaves. Ready to listen to him read, ready to help him… and for what? What does he have to gain from this? He didn’t need to save Moses, but he did.

Aziraphale has been staring too long, and his tongue is fat with everything it’s been damming up inside. And he has to say something. Has to. But he doesn’t say: ‘You are so good. So good to Moses. You helped Her people. You were supposed to hurt them, and you… didn’t.’ He doesn’t say: ‘You are the only one who understands this world in the same way I do. I feel closer to you than any angel. You know me. I know you. We are the same, even if no one else knows.’ He doesn’t say: ‘You make me smile. You make me laugh. I like being near you. I want to be near you more.’

He blurts out something superficial and shiny, the ring; trying to divert the feeling in his stomach somewhere else. Somewhere hidden, where wine and food will later try to drown it out. Somewhere…

“This one?” An amber eye blinks open at him, his reaction simple. Instinctual. _Him_. “Pfft. You can have it.”

It’s worth more than any slave under Aziraphale’s charge could ever hope to make, even if it - to Crowley - might be relatively worthless. To Aziraphale, it is priceless. Priceless in the way the demon’s first response to what he has is to _share_ it. 

He falls back onto the low bed, realising too late how he’s much too close. Much, much too close. So close he can see the way Crowley’s slitted eyes widen and dilate; can see the parting of his lips, and the way he leaves nothing hidden at all. It’s almost as if touching his face would be to touch his thoughts, as if breathing in his air would be to--

“I can’t take something so precious from you,” he says, though he wants to say: Yes! Yes. Please. He can’t say that, because he is not supposed to Want Things. He is not supposed to enjoy ‘trivial’ things. He is a servant. A - slave? No. That implies his obedience to Her is unwilling. And he _does_ want to serve. 

He’s so close. So close he can feel the heat radiating from that dusky skin. Crowley soaks it in all day, unafraid and unabashed, and now he ekes it back into the air around him. Aziraphale feels strangely like he’s burning, even though a flaming sword couldn’t harm a hair on his body. This… this demon… with his guileless face and his… his…

“You can have whatever you want, angel.”

He says it so simply, and it’s both the most honest thing and darkest lie in one. He’s an angel. He can’t have… he… 

(Why not? Adam and Eve were not cast out for love, but for doing what they were told not to. And he hasn’t been told not to. And it isn’t as if he’s neglecting his duties. And it isn’t as if Crowley is really… you know… actually bad… and… love is not a sin… it’s…)

The angel leans in before he can talk himself out of it, made bold by the mad heat from the demon’s lean frame. It’s just a kiss. It doesn’t need to mean anything. He’s never kissed… not… not like _that_. Greetings between friends, yes, but never when it felt like it meant anything else. He wants to know. Wants to know why they do it, and wants to know why he can’t stop watching those lips and wondering. Just one kiss.

Just one.

Crowley… _melts_ beside him. What once had seemed fluid and languid before… now seems like the harshest of stone. The slender body he’s pressed against just… yields. Lips that open as if to speak, and work wordless messages against his own. It’s warm, not as wet as he imagined, and so terribly, terribly intimate. To stop the mouth from talking, and to be so close to one another. To feel and hear the shape of his breath, and feel the thudding heart where their bodies touch. 

Both of them, in fact. Both of them are racing, and he’s light-headed from the knowledge that he _meant_ it. He meant it. He could have this… maybe more. ‘Blend in’. Was that what he meant? He’d be happy, here? Even as starkly out of place in the slave’s district as he would be should he find himself back in Heaven. Would he stay, if Aziraphale asked? 

The angel can’t quite bring himself to unfurl his fist, afraid to break the perfect moment of offering, taking, giving… he pushes his fingers into his palm until his knuckles threaten to split the skin, and…

Crowley pulls back. Only a little. Eyes like impossible dark skies peering out from pools of molten gold. He could be Bast, instead of the serpent that he is. Sharp-clawed defender of Pharaohs and their sons. Tender mother-cat, full of dance, song, love. Guardian of the East… 

...which Aziraphale had…

Which…

“Stay,” Crowley whispers, and runs two fingers down the ball of Aziraphale’s fist. “Please.”

It’s _his place_, but the demon is right. Part of him wants to bolt. His blue eyes search for a lie, a trick, a temptation, a… sin. But all he can see is what he can feel in his own chest.

It’s. Love.

It has to be. Not because he’s beautiful (and oh, She knows he is). It’s… it’s that thing inside of him. That… spark he’s seen nowhere else. Curiosity. Curiosity, and… _caring_. Since day eight (or was it later) when the Serpent of Eden crawled up the wall to speak to him. He’d just tempted Eve into the first sin, and (indirectly) Aziraphale into the third.

He should probably have sent him away, then. Or brought down holy wrath. Or… anything but admit he’d just performed his first act of disobedience in his life, and that he was riddled with guilt over it. 

And Crowley (or Crawly, then)… had been anything but what he’d expected. No demonic glee or laughter at their fate. No gloating. No sneering, or insults. Curiosity. What Ifs. And a sudden offer of comfort - small but entirely superfluous and probably downright treasonous for a demon - given without a second thought.

He’d made Aziraphale _think_. And feel. And feel… like maybe it wasn’t the Wrong Thing to help. Like maybe the nagging feeling in what would later reveal itself to be his belly was - after all - correct. 

Crowley was _good_. Not angelic. Not perfect. But more good than not, or maybe more good than the average being he knew. Or…

“My dear, I--”

Love you? I think I do? I think that’s what this ache is? I think it’s why I feel wrong when you’re not here? Why just being close is… is like the best beer, the ripest fruit, the richest meal? The coolest rain, the distant sun? Why I think about you when you’re not with me, and why I want so desperately to fall into your arms and never climb out?

The hand curls around his, one finger glancing at the edge of his wrist, and the sheer _joy_ of it means Aziraphale can’t hold back any more. Won’t hold back. He’s already damned, if this is a damnable offence, and he refuses to believe it could be. He wants this. Wants _him_. And if this is his only night with Crowley, if he’s about to be ripped into non-existence, because to cast him down would only be to set him free to--

“_Angel_.”

He breathes it like it’s more than a title. More than even a name. He breathes it like a prayer, as Aziraphale surges and pushes Crowley back into the bed. He’s sort of straddling him, hot-faced and with a throat full of road-dust, but he’s never wanted anything more in his whole existence. Their fingers lace, as he pins the demon’s hands down. 

Nothing could be more un-angelic. But he was offered. And so he’ll take. Take the heady gasp and the tilt of Crowley’s head back, just a half inch. Throat offered, below the circling chains around his neck. He’s a slave, too, for all he plays a god (small ‘g’). He’s trapped in his temple, alone and aching. Alone in a world of death that chases everyone else away. 

Crowley wants this, he does. He offered. He promised. He says so in the way his almost-bare chest rises and falls beneath him. In the way he flows like he’s more liquid than lucidity. Offering. Begging. Both.

“_Whatever you want._.”

Aziraphale kisses him again, and this time it isn’t soft and sweet. It’s hungry, achingly so. He nips his teeth into that lower lip to taste, to… to… siphon off some of the boiling water in his bloodstream. To punish him, for being so perfect! Or - imperfect, but in just the right ways! For making him _want_ something, just for himself! For being… him.

He tastes of salt, and chickpeas, and wine, and more. He tastes of the sound of his voice, and the smiles he is sure Crowley only offers to him. He yields like the sea, and surges like it, too. A tongue that meets his own, suddenly, and it’s so utterly bizarre that it feels as good as it does. It’s _blasphemy_, to tangle up parts made for other things entirely. To take that flicker of serpentine memory into himself, breaching the you-me divide. But it’s not enough. It could never be enough. He could swallow him whole, or be swallowed whole, and he wouldn’t be deep enough in. Aziraphale wants to _bathe_ in him, like the waters of the Nile. Wants to twine and twist and do those things that never seemed to make sense before, until he thought of doing them with Crowley.

Right now, he’s aware there’s hands on him, pushing under his tunic, gliding up his thigh. Another around his nape, holding him in place. He’s not sure when he let them go free, but it must have happened because he’s cupping that jaw like it’s the most precious thing in the universe. And he’s being urged closer, tighter… less… clothed. A hand burns its way up to his hip, and Aziraphale fears he’ll see a red streak there forever, with how hot his skin burns. 

He turns from the mouth, needing… needing to say something, but finding it entirely impossible, because Crowley is looking up at him like he might have just saved him. He’s saved Aziraphale enough. Saved him when he’d been alone, on the wall, afraid he would not see the next sunrise. When he’d been staring out at the latest Problem and no one else _knew_. Not like they did. Any number of times, when he’d been lowest, or most afraid… the demon had been there. 

Like now. Spread below him, with his wrist jangling gold as he pushes fingers into the angel’s short hair. The tip of each finger is a bolt of lightning down his spine, and he feels the _yield_ as Crowley’s legs spread properly, hitching around him, rucking up the simple fabric as he goes. His other hand wanders over his chest, even the distant pressure and obscured contact almost too much to handle. He wants - oh he wants - but the demon is too afraid to ask, and Aziraphale is too afraid to answer.

(Yes. If he asked. Yes.)

Locked in this dance, like a snake dancing to a pipe, though he can’t tell who is which. Just that he can lower his weight and make this beautiful creature moan like the wind over desert sands. Can sneak his fingers under the suddenly lead-heavy skirt, and… find the thick, achingly ready offering below.

Crowley wants this. Wants… him. He didn’t ask, he offered. (Isn’t that what temptation is, a little voice crows. Aren’t you supposed to think it’s what you want, too?)

He didn’t force. Demand. Push. Aziraphale invited him here. This is his place, his roof, his bed. Crowley is splayed out like a feast-day offering, legs locked around his waist, clutching at him and begging without words. His cock is hard, yet somehow… not. No, that’s not right. It’s very definitely erect and ready, but it’s also… soft. Smooth. Warm. It’s alive, in ways Aziraphale hadn’t imagined. It yields when he squeezes, it glides when he strokes. The demon _whimpers_ and breathes that name, that… endearment again. 

It cannot be wrong.

It cannot. Not to make someone so happy. Not to simply indulge in physical contact, made freely and with mutual pleasure. Because it is a pleasure, to have his scalp chased by fingers. To have heels drum him on, and a hand grab his arm. Even kissing felt incredible, and it’s better because… well. It’s. Love. That’s what’s making his head swim, making his body sing. What’s making a fierce, protective swell rise up in him. He wants to see Crowley happy, but he wants to see him _safe_, just as much.

“Angel… please.”

But what? What is he asking? A hand plays with the front of his tunic, tugging it but not fully lifting it. Crowley wants him… less… dressed. Aziraphale isn’t sure he can.

“I - I don’t know how--” He does. In theory.

“Oil. Lotion. Damn miracle. I don’t care, just--”

Oh. Right. Aziraphale knows some males do that, amongst other things. He’s certainly not lacking in his own interest, though it’s scratchy under his tunic and he maybe wouldn’t have come to that solution himself, but…

“Bring some,” he asks. Orders. Somewhere between the two. 

“...I can… if you want me to…”

Whatever makes this easier. That way, he won’t misinterpret whatever it is. And when that turns out to be Crowley miracling the fingers of one hand sticky, then almost bending in half to shove them up and into himself… Aziraphale’s mouth goes dry.

He can’t see, not when the demon is holding the back of his neck for purchase as he bounces and squirms beneath and around him. He can’t see, but he can _hear_ the wet glide inside, and see the indentation of teeth in Crowley’s lower lip as he tirelessly moves his arm. Crowley wants to mate, or - well - make love as close to it as they can, currently - and he’s even more debauched and breathless as he fights to twist and turn himself ready.

Aziraphale… just watches. Then puts his hand on Crowley’s forearm, feeling it work. The contact is enough to make the demon cry and judder, and for a moment he worries he’s hurried this too soon, but then their eyes meet.

“Now, angel. Please. I-- I want you to.”

Aziraphale wants to, too. He nods, and pulls the fabric up enough to see his own, very much interested party. He’s never truly engaged with this function before, but the effort he’s made is definitely functioning. At least, it is according to Crowley for comparison, because it looks similarly full and engaged. 

It’s. He’s thought about it, even if he tried to pretend he didn’t. He’s imagined so many things, but they were all faint and dry compared to the reality. The sounds. The smells. The way his skin goes paler when Aziraphale grips him tight. The way he almost can’t bear to touch himself enough to guide his dick towards… to…

Rump. Ass. Bum. Rear. A million more crude and crass words, but really there’s no need for the shyness. It’s a body. This is a part of it. And when he pushes and presses at the area, seeking that passage at last, it seems pointless to be ashamed or afraid. It’s Crowley. Crowley who knows nearly everything there is to know about him. Who reached out his hand, and has never given Aziraphale reason to truly regret taking it.

He takes it now, pushes it into the bed again as he ruts his hips forward. Crowley’s body grips at him, almost pushing him out and pulling him in at once. It’s… soft. Wet. Hard. Tight. All those things and something much deeper. Something like gravity, tugging him. A string wrapped around his heart, pulled until it hammers against his ribs. He’s inside of him.

Inside. Strangely, the intimacy of that is much more intense than the physical sensation of entering him. Crowley, on his back, utterly submitting to this, to him. Offering himself, and more than just a shiny trinket, and a few moments of sensual pleasure. He is, isn’t he? In all those things he does. Offering…

Because Aziraphale wants them. So much so his throat is tight with emotion as they roll and move together. Crowley’s cock ignored but not forgotten, as he shifts his weight and his angle to find the best ways to move. To be. To breathe. He wants… what he sees the humans have. That. The… holdings hands thing. The smiling thing. The being happy together thing. 

He wants more than this, and now he’s worried that he can’t have it. Heaven and Hell - or even Crowley himself - will conspire to remove the option from his life. He’ll find bliss in his arms, but what about after?

“Angel - oh, oh - yes! P-p-pleassse… t-touch me, I--”

Forcing the sorrow away, he wraps his hand around Crowley’s shaft, and strokes it a little too sharply. He can’t leave. He can’t say no. He can’t--

Ask.

Aziraphale can’t ask.

The demon in his bed, in his arms, is lost to the sensations, now. He’s clinging on and pushing his face into Aziraphale’s neck. Kissing and biting lightly and whimpering as Aziraphale starts to fuck into him in earnest. Like the bites to his lips, he needs to - to - _punish_ him, almost, for not giving him everything he knows he wants and can’t have. It would mean the death of them both, and even though the concept of using him for this, then… not… not treating it like the true offering of himself… not… entering into this with his whole heart open for the taking…

Grief spoils the moment, but it can’t reach beyond the pleasure it was born from. Crowley keens and jumps and spills between them, his body clutching at the place they join as his climax ripples through him. He’s clinging for dear life as Aziraphale loses his restraint, and thrusts madly into him until he’s climaxing, too.

Sweet like honey. Bitter like brackish water. They could be perfect, and he knows that because they’d make it perfect. Long lashes casting palm-tree shadows on his cheeks. Puffs of breath that sound louder than they feel. An expression so far from a smile, but meaning the exact same thing. Crowley is lost to it, and Aziraphale’s heart breaks. 

He tries to catch his feelings in his breaths, and waits until he thinks it’s decent before he starts to pull back.

He wants this. But they’ll kill them for it. 

And maybe it’ll be enough, to be almost enough. Instead of to be nothing at all, expired and retired and what does happen to celestial and occult beings when they die, anyway?

They can’t. So they mustn’t. So he has to find some way to let this be okay.

Maybe Crowley will understand the way out he’s offering. (Asking. Begging. Wanting the truth and terrified it’s what he thinks it is.)

Maybe he will know they _can’t_, even if they both know it’s the most perfect thing to ever be considered.

Maybe he’ll be smart enough to take the coward’s way out, and survive.

Sitting up. Unable to face him. Clothing re-lowered, though he can feel the traces of the seed he spilt inside the demon, still smeared over his cock. 

“...that is obviously not what you intended” he says.

Aziraphale can’t look at him, or his voice might crack. The most beautiful thing they could share, and he knows he could just have killed them both in stealing it from him. 

“Aziraphale.” His full name. Sorrow now creeping into the demon’s tone at last, as he realises at least some of what is wrong.

The angel closes his eyes in silent prayer. Let it be okay. Let this be Right. Let me have this one thing to love. 

“...that was… Er-- I _did_ ‘intended’ that.”

The error, tripped so innocently and shyly off his forked tongue. He does. He feels the same. It’s so perfect and awful, all at once. His very own love, and he can’t have him. Not without risking his destruction, and he could never chance that. 

He sees the ring on offer, and he wonders if Crowley knows the significance of that. Does he, and he means it? Or is it just a kind gesture?

It fits perfectly.

They fit perfectly.

They are in so much trouble. 

It kills him to walk outside, but if he doesn’t, he might explode. The sweat from their… from their lovemaking cools on his brow, the rest miracled away, as he runs through every possible option in his head.

Aziraphale is in love. He’s pretty sure Crowley is, too.


End file.
